


night has always pushed up day

by iskra (kiira)



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: !!, Airport AU, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-11
Updated: 2014-11-11
Packaged: 2018-02-24 22:47:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2599361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiira/pseuds/iskra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>we’re both stuck in this airport cause of a storm and i’m afraid of thunder au</p>
            </blockquote>





	night has always pushed up day

When the airport made the announcement, you were expecting a wait of maybe forty minutes tops.

Somehow those forty minutes turned into three hours, and you left your pillow in your checked luggage because this was _supposed_ to be an hour-long flight and you were _supposed_ to be already half-way home. Your dad has already texted you a half dozen times, and sent a blurry photo of what you think is the weather channel on the TV in your living room.

Trying to decipher the photo takes a solid 25 minutes, and by the end of it you know that:

> a) you’re going to buy a phone that has internet access
> 
> b) like as soon as you get somewhere that isn’t the middle of nowhere, Austria
> 
> c) there are probably going to be thunderstorms for the next three hours (or maybe your dog got in the way of the photo, you’re still not quite sure)

With a groan, you shove your phone back into the darkest corner of your backpack and try to lean back against the hard, airplane seat and fall asleep. And that’s when you notice her.

She looks to be your age, maybe a little younger, and she’s dressed like she missed the invention of color, all black and heavy boots that could probably crush bones with very little effort.

The perfect picture of the broody, apathetic college girl (philosophy major, you guess, or maybe French literature) except for the fact that she looks like she’s about to start crying.

At first, you try to keep your distance, let her cry in peace, but this is quite possibly the smallest airport you’ve ever been in, and her choking, gasping breaths are becoming more and more difficult to ignore, less sorrow and more terror, like she’s trying to block out the sounds of the storm outside with her own breathing.

Ten more minutes pass, and you give up trying to read your book and move a couple of seats closer to her, ready to dart back to the safety of your corner chair should she happen to notice your migration. But she doesn’t, just buries her face in her hands and tugs her knees tight to her chest, and you feel a sudden jolt of complete pity and understanding, remembering how your lungs would tighten and hands would shake for years after you got into a car.

(You remember how you had to squeeze your eyes shut last week to avoid seeing the mess of an accident smoldering by the side of the road.)

It only takes a second for you to slide across the last two chairs between you and her, and you take a deep breath before tapping her softly on the shoulder.

“Um,” and you realize that you had only prepared yourself for approaching her, and hadn’t even considered what you were going to say. “Um, hi. Are you waiting for the flight to London too? I am. I mean, you know that, cause I said ‘too.’ But I’m not English. I live in Canada? And there were no direct flights from here to anywhere except like London and Moscow and I’m Laura, by the way.”

She’s still shaking, and you know now that she didn’t just _look_ like she was crying, but she was probably full-out sobbing before you even got there to notice, eyeliner smudged around her still-red eyes.

“Sorry,” you continue, suddenly doubting your decision. “There’s like no one else here and I’m kind of getting cabin fever, and you looked the most interesting out of everyone here. I can like… go away if you…”

“No,” she interrupts, “No, um, I would quite like it if you stayed,” and her voice is strangely stilted and accented with something that vaguely resembles how the Austrian students at university spoke, but older, rounder. She shakes her head and smiles shakily, “Um, I’m Carmilla,” and the accent is gone.

(Maybe you imagined it.)

A crash of thunder interrupts your conversation and she makes a tiny, whimpering noise and digs her nails into her hands. Hesitantly, you put your hand on her knee and she gives you a weak grin and swallows hard.

“’m sorry,” she mutters to your hand, “I’m just – um – not the best with storms,” and the thunder crashes again, her whole body becoming ramrod straight. The thunder fades and she melts back into a façade of calm.

“It’s okay,” you whisper. “I don’t like cars,” and she looks at you, and somehow you know that she _knows_ and you’re the one supposed to be comforting here, but she (still trembling) leans in slightly to you, and murmurs, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you whisper, and in the same breath, “Are you okay?”

She messily pushes her hair away from her face and nods, and then shakes her head, and starts crying again.

“Holy shit,” and you are _not_ prepared for this, and she’s sobbing as quietly as you’ve ever heard, like she’s learned to cry so no one will hear, and that almost breaks your heart more than the fact that she’s crying in an airport alone the week before the holidays.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” she gasps, and somewhere between apologies, she tells a disjointed story about war, and bombs, and rebirth and you have no idea what she’s talking about (and you don’t think you could ever being to understand what she’s talking about), but you gingerly stroke her hair and mutter something that you hope is comfort for her.

“Sorry,” she finishes, “I don’t usually cry on strangers. Like ever,” and her voice reaches something that could be a smirk and you catch a glimpse of the girl she would be when she’s not having a panic attack in an airport, someone who you would probably totally crush on from a distance and secretly try to talk to as much as possible, and blog about _way_ more than you should.

The intercom buzzes on, and it’s in German, and you’re paying way too little attention to translate, but Carmilla groans and rests her head in her hands (and discreetly tries to wipe the smudged eyeliner off her face, but only succeeds in smearing it more).

“You said you were going to London, yeah?” You nod, and she gives you a half-smile. “Your flight’s not taking off til tomorrow morning. I guess you’re stuck with me a while longer,” and you lean in a little more to her touch.

“I think the storm’s over,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” she whispers back, and smiles. “I think it’s finally over.”

(You wake up the next morning with your head in her lap, her fingers combing through your hair and even though it’s December in Austria, the sun is shining.)


End file.
